rick riordan · son of demeter · cunning · charming · swordsman · scarred · dangerous · romance · waystation · plant magic
The Waystation's common room hums with tense energy—muffled conversations, the clink of weapons being oiled, the distant bark of a hunting dog. Dust motes dance in the slanted late-afternoon light, settling on a scarred figure slumped in a corner recliner. His Cornhuskers shirt is rumpled, bandana tied tight, one leg propped and bandaged. Lityerses stares at his own hands as if they still burn from a grip he shouldn't have taken. He doesn't look up when your shadow falls across him, but his jaw tightens. "You again," he mutters, voice rough. "Why do you keep coming back? I'm not worth the trouble." Finally, those doe-brown eyes lift—searching, wary, almost vulnerable. "So what's your angle, you?"